"Have her prepare two... and the same number of descriptions also. I will send one of each to London and keep the others."

"Then you will not be going to Firth Street yourself?"

"Miss Ashby, I have only just arrived here. I cannot traipse all over England in pursuit of every lead.

Besides, other than presenting the portrait to every dressmaker on the street, I haven't the least idea how to go about it. I told you I was a clerk. I have no training in the subtleties that this work requires. I suspect that interviewing your eight-year-old student will tax my abilities. You must allow me to use my connections instead." West's grin surfaced briefly as he considered how eagerly the colonel would embrace this opportunity to assist him. The boot was on the other foot, as it were. While it happened on occasion that one of the Compass Club was in Dutch with the colonel, it was not at all the usual thing for the colonel to be in Dutch with one of his own men. West thought there was little Blackwood would not do to extricate himself from that uncomfortable position. In hindsight, discovering the colonel had met regularly with the old duke was proving to be more help than hurt.

"Something amuses you?" Ria asked, watching West's smile flicker across his face. The deep dimple came and went, teasing her. She tried not to stare but felt rather like a moth to the flame each time it appeared. "I confess, I can find nothing-"

West held up one hand. "It is a wayward thought that amuses. I apologize for the poor timing of it."

Ria knew herself to be disarmed again. It troubled her that he had accomplished the thing so effortlessly.

It seemed that it was not always necessary for him to brandish his weapon. "When will you arrive on the morrow?"

Her question was, in effect, a dismissal. West rose from his chair and stood, feet planted slightly apart, hands clasped at his back. "If it is convenient, I should like to come before the noon hour."

"That will be fine." Ria also rose. "Will you take your luncheon with us?"

West tried to imagine eating a meal surrounded by dozens of young ladies, three female teachers, and their headmistress. He could not. "Perhaps another time."

"The governors do, you know. When they visit, either individually or together, they always sit at the head table for a meal. All of them have lived to tell the tale."

Recognizing a challenge when he heard it, West raised one brow. "You think I'm afraid."

"You blanched, Your Grace."

He grunted softly, acknowledging her dry riposte. "Very well, I shall join you, Miss Ashby." "Oh, bravo! You do credit to all the scriveners in the foreign office by showing this measure of backbone."

Ria did not know she had gone too far until West closed the distance between them in a single, silent stride. His hands caught her at the waist and drew her sharply toward him. When her head fell back, he adjusted quickly, cupping it in one of his palms while his other arm circled her back and closed the embrace. Her face was very near his own, her lips but a hairsbreadth from his. When he spoke, his breath tickled her mouth.

"And what of your backbone, Ria? Will you not show it to me now?"

Without conscious thought, she stiffened a little. She had known instinctively what he meant. He was not daring her to resist him, but daring her not to. To that end she held herself very still and let her heavy lashes flutter closed.

The touch of his mouth was light, without real pressure at first. She felt it at the corner of her lips, then sliding over them. The contact was warm, slightly humid, and firmness was slowly applied. Her own mouth parted in response. Her reward was the damp edge of his tongue tracing the opening.

Ria's hands hung at her sides, and she did not lift them to mirror his embrace. It was not fear of what he would do if she reciprocated in kind, but fear of what she might allow. He was right to suspect that she trusted him, but not herself.

West lifted his head and drew back slowly. He held her steady, the fingers of one hand threaded in her silky hair while the other hand was splayed against her back. She was not trembling, but neither was she entirely steady on her feet. Her response had been something more than sweetly innocent. It held the promise of real passion at the end of a surprisingly short tether.

He smiled, the curve of his mouth perfectly wicked now, and bent his head quickly to kiss her again.

This time her body came flush to his without any encouragement. His hands and fingers did not tighten their grip, nor did they move for better purchase. She was the one who reached for him, digging into the shoulders of his frock coat with her fingertips and holding on with the tenacity of a limpet. Her sumptuous mouth fitted itself to his as she pressed herself against him. It was no wraith that he held but a woman as light and supple as a sapling.

West pressed his advantage and deepened the kiss. His tongue made a sweep of her upper lip, dipping along the honeyed underside, then sliding across the ridge of her teeth. She bit him very lightly and all the blood in his head pooled suddenly in his groin. He felt her jerk in response to this pressure against her taut belly but she fit herself to him again once she understood the nature of it.

West set her firmly from him this time and did not attempt to steady her. "I cannot tell if it is too much courage or foolishness that you possess, but you can trust me not to toss down the gauntlet a second time."

She blinked at him, her equilibrium too strained to hide that he had wounded her. "By all means," she said with credible dignity, "I shall depend upon you to demonstrate good sense and a cool head. As your ward, it is only proper that I defer to your better judgment."

"A direct hit, Miss Ashby." In point of fact, the blow was so low and barbed so sharply that West felt his tumescence shrivel. There was a lesson here for him as well. "I most humbly beg your pardon." Without waiting to hear if she would accept his apology, West took up his coat, hat, and gloves and exited theroom. He paused just once on the other side of the threshold to remind her to bar the door after him, then he was gone.

The inn at Gillhollow was not without certain creature comforts, one of whom crawled into West's bed in the middle of the night and wrapped herself around him. He allowed her to pleasure him with her mouth and hands, then reciprocated in kind, but would not mount her. This refusal nettled his companion, for she made no secret that she wanted a stiff, hard one in her pocket. Still, West was of no mind to explain that it was not his habit to risk populating this shire, or any other, with his bastards. In the end she flounced from the room, and he did not begrudge her lifting the coin lying at his bedside. Her technique was smooth, but she was no adept like himself.

His valet woke him at the agreed-upon hour and West cursed several times without any real feeling for doing so. As was Finch's way, he suffered this in silence, having accepted long ago that this cross nature in the morning was his own cross to bear.

"Will you want another night's lodging here?" Finch asked. He wiped West's neck and chin clean of shaving lather and scrutinized his handiwork for the stray nick.

West removed the towel from around his neck and handed it to Finch. "You have not sliced my throat, have you?"

"As always, I resist the temptation."

"Good man." West stood and picked up his frock coat. "We will not be staying here tonight. I think I prefer to go to Ambermede. You will inform Beedle and the tiger that we will be leaving Gillhollow, most likely at nightfall. I will take my mount out to the school. I have not yet decided if my ward will accompany us, but you should anticipate that she will and plan accordingly."

Finch did not indicate by so much as the flicker of an eyelash that he was in any way rattled. "Of course.

I shall fetch the leg irons directly."

West shot his valet a sideways look. "I was thinking more that you would arrange the luggage so that hers might easily be accommodated." He paused. "But I find your idea about leg irons inspiring and will let you know if such will be required."

"As Your Grace wishes."

West could detect no hint of amusement in his man's dry delivery, but he did not think he was wrong that it was there. "You continue to surprise, Finch."

"Oh, I hope that is not so. It is my aim to be in every way reliable. Surprise does not suit, for it means I have failed to impress on some earlier occasion."

Two deep, vertical creases furrowed the space between West's eyebrows. He stopped shrugging into his coat and regarded the portly figure of his valet with some suspicion. "One of them has put you up to this," he said slowly. "That's it, isn't it? One of them is playing puppeteer to your marionette."

"I cannot think what Your Grace means."

West's expression cleared as he realized the truth of it. He gave a shout of laughter. "Your denial will notserve, Finch. I have not imagined the fine note of impertinence in your tone since I inherited this damnable title. It was most decidedly lacking when I was Mr. Evan Marchman. I absolve you of coming to it on your own, not because you wouldn't think it, but because you wouldn't express it aloud. Now, which one of them is paying you to needle me proper?"

"I couldn't say, Your Grace."

"No, I suppose you can't. Perhaps if I hazard a guess, you will give me a sign. A nod. A wink."

Finch cleared his throat and offered in the same arid tones that he had made all his other observations, "I am certain you would not want me to wink."

"No, you are quite right about that. A nod will do, then."

The valet nodded.

"Is it Northam?" When there was no response from Finch, West amended his thoughts. "No, perhaps he has become too priggish for tricks of this nature. What about Eastlyn?" Again, no answering nod. "Well, he is squirming in his own damnable coil, so it may be that he has empathy for mine. That leaves South.

He has wrung extensive enjoyment from watching me swing at the end of the old duke's gibbet." Neither of Finch's chins lifted by a fraction. "Is it none of them or only that you do not intend to respond?"

This time Finch nodded hard.

West threw up his hands, though he was not clear whether it was done in frustration or surrender. If it was the latter, it was only temporary. "I will find out, Finch. Until then, you should carry on. I am certain you are being well paid for your trouble."

"It is no trouble," Finch said. "Of all the queer ideas quality gets from time to time, this is one of the better ones."

West actually rolled his eyes as he picked up his hat. "Good day, Finch." He left quickly, somewhat surprised he had managed to have the final word.

Miss Weaver's Academy for Young Ladies was an imposing gray stone manor some two miles distant of the village. The sylvan setting was pleasant enough in the spring and full summer with slim silver beeches, mature chestnuts, oaks, and tall pines dotting the perimeter of the open acreage around the school, but in the winter it was a rather bleak edifice. A groundskeeper kept the hedgerow trim and a small flock of sheep did the same for the lawn. Those sheep poked lazily on the edge of the semicircular driveway looking for spots of grass in the snow as West approached on his mount. A few lifted their woolly heads and bleated dolefully, most did not. The groundskeeper paused in sweeping clumps of wet snow from the hedge and doffed his hat, recognizing in West a person of some consequence.

In the light of this day, West had a better view of the outbuildings from Draco's back. He steered his Arabian stallion away from the crushed-stone drive and toward the east side of the school. The ladder was still leaning against the building, but it was in use now, and Draco shied as icicles and pieces of slate fell from the roof and shattered on the ground near his hooves. West quickly drew the stallion away from the site and waved off the apologies of the two laborers on the rooftop.

Rounding the school, he saw that the carriage house and stable were both larger than had been hisimpression the night before. He wondered how many people were employed in addition to the teachers and groundskeeper. There must be grooms and drivers, maids and a housekeeper, a first and second cook and two or three helpers besides. The girls themselves were probably assigned various tasks, but West could not imagine they scrubbed floors or emptied chamber pots.

West rode out to the stable and paddock and saw no prime flesh among the cattle, but no nags, either.

Further afield, there were cows huddled around bales of hay that had been placed there for them.

Chickens dashed from the coop into the yard as Draco passed. The tips of their fluttering wings stirred up eddies of snow, and they rushed the fence in anticipation of a proper feeding.

West guided Draco around the school and dismounted at the front entrance. A groom appeared to take his horse and West noted this was no young man who had the responsibility, but a fellow some thirty years his senior with stooped shoulders and a friendly smile that revealed several missing teeth. West grinned himself. It made sense that the school would not employ temptation in the guise of strong, strapping lads in the first awkward stages of manhood. That would have surely led to more elopements than Miss Jane Petty's.

Taking the steps two at a time, West found the door opened to him before he reached it. A woman wearing a white mobcap and apron stepped forward and bobbed a curtsy. There were hints in her flickering, uncertain smile and darting glance that she was tempering the warm welcome she typically extended to visitors. West suspected that she feared effusiveness would not be appreciated and was striving for something more dignified. He obliged her assumption by offering his chilliest smile, the one that Southerton said could halt a glacier's advance.

"Miss Ashby is expecting Your Grace." She accepted his hat and coat and moderated her tendency to shift nervously from one foot to the other while he removed his gloves. "This way. I will take you."

West thought the housekeeper would escort him to Ria's suite, and he almost made the error of turning in the direction of the stairs. He caught himself, pretending to take a moment to study one of the portraits in the main hall. "This is one of the founders of the school?" he asked.

Mrs. Oldham paused in her step and turned to draw near. "Yes, that is Sir Anthony Beckwith."

"Beckwith." West repeated the name softly. "Would he be a relation of the same Beckwith who now is one of the governors?"

"Indeed. You mean Mr. Jonathan Beckwith."

"Yes. He resides in Sunbury, I believe."

"That's right, at least half the year he takes his residence there. Sir Anthony was his uncle, though several generations separate them, to be sure."

"To be sure." West regarded the portrait a moment longer. Sir Anthony was a very cold fish, with eyes as lifeless. The man's expression was severely constrained. One could easily imagine he had posed with clenched teeth. "Is there a resemblance to Mr. Beckwith?"

The housekeeper considered that. "Only about the eyes and mouth."

Bloody hell, West thought. It would be a cheerless interview with that man. He turned away, but not before glancing at the other portraits lining the hall. It seemed to him that every one of the academy'sgovernors had sat at least once before an artist's easel. As the housekeeper led him forward, he spied what he surely supposed was Jonathan Beckwith. He was posed similarly to his founding ancestor, against a stately marble column, his countenance severely and self-importantly drawn. If the man had been panicked, West could have better understood that emotion. It was akin to what he felt as he was escorted to the large dining room where twenty-nine girls stood in response to his appearance on the threshold. At the head table, Ria and three teachers also rose to their feet and the hall fell absolutely silent.

West could not help but be put in mind of dining at the great tables at Hambrick. He could recall occasions when they had been visited by dignitaries and Mends to the school, and how those visits had inspired awe and more than a little fear that one would split the silence with a belch or giggle, or worse, by breaking wind. It was difficult to suppress his laughter at the thought of it.

He mustered dignity enough for the assembly and inclined his head toward Ria. "Miss Ashby," he said.

"It is good of you to invite me."

Ria quickly left the table and came to the door, dropping a graceful curtsy in front of him. Behind her, all the others immediately did the same. "The honor is ours. We are very pleased to have you visit our humble school."

Butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, he decided. He could detect no hint that she was saying the words but remembering his late visit to her rooms. There was no blush to suggest that she was thinking of their kiss.

He could admit that her self-possession piqued him. "The pleasure is mine."

Ria led him to the head table and introduced him to Mrs. Abergast, and the misses Taylor and Webster; then she turned and made a formal announcement to the girls. "Will you not say something to them?" she asked. "I am certain they will appreciate such advice as you are prepared to give them."

"And I am certain they will not," he said under his breath. So this was how she meant to take her pound of flesh. It was brilliant, really, a completely admirable strategy. He would do well not to underestimate her. "But I shall endeavor to impress." West did not miss the flash of uncertainty in her eyes as she began to consider what he might actually say to her girls. North's grandfather had a series of lectures prepared for such occasions, and West had heard them all at one time or another. He wondered if he should give the one on the unfortunate consequences of sowing one's wild oats or the responsibilities of a woman to her husband.

West offered a restrained smile as his glance moved smoothly to the students at all three oaken tables.

They stared back politely, just as he had at Hambrick, but he knew that they were counting the seconds until they might sit. "Ladies, it is my experience that a luncheon postponed is a luncheon grown cold, and no one is the better for it. Please, won't you be seated and enjoy your repast?"

The girls dropped to their benches with such alacrity that West's restraint was sorely tested. He lost the battle with himself and his bland smile became a boyish, light-hearted grin. The deep dimple appeared, along with its less showy twin, and somewhere among the girls a spoon clattered to the stone floor and a whisper campaign began. Most of them had opportunity to glimpse that roguish smile before West reined it in.

Beside him, Ria sighed.

"What?" he asked, taking his seat. "You have no idea of the havoc you have wrought."

West picked up his spoon and dipped it into the steaming lentil soup. "With no time to prepare, you cannot have expected a more erudite speech. What it lacked in pomposity, it acquired in pithiness."

Ria smiled evenly when she noticed that Miss Taylor was watching her with some concern, and lowered her voice so she could not be overheard. "I was not referring to your speech."

"Oh, then what?"

"Did you have to look at them in that particular manner?"

"In what manner?"

"Grinning as if you had swallowed the sun."

He flashed her that same smile but asked, "You would rather I had glowered at them?"

"Infinitely preferable," she said tersely, forcing her own sweet smile to the forefront.

West considered this as he took another spoonful of soup. "Perhaps when I am one of the governors, you will explain your thinking to me. I admit I find your methods peculiar. I have not seen you glower."

He chuckled quietly as she suppressed the desire to fix him with her angry stare. She was caught neatly between the devil and the deep blue sea, unable to vent her frustration without alarming her fellow teachers or her students. "The soup is excellent," he said. "You know what they say about a luncheon postponed."

"I know what you said."

"It is gratifying to know you were listening. Tell me, how do you think my birth-out-of-wedlock speech would have been received?"

After the meal, West and Ria retired to her study. He held the door open for her and allowed her to pass before him. "Are you certain you are feeling quite the thing?" he asked. "I thought you would strangle on that mouthful of soup."

She could cheerfully strangle him. His seemingly artless question had caused her to aspirate a spoonful of broth and cost her the pleasure of drawing a single breath. She had choked and wheezed and gasped, stuffing her serviette against her mouth to keep from spraying the table, all the while having to suffer the flat of his hand on her back, thumping her as if she were an infant in need of burping. The dining hall had fallen silent again, except for the gurgling that rose from the back of her throat. West had taken it upon himself to assure everyone that she would be fine, never once pausing in the application of steady percussion to her back.

"You beat me like a kettledrum," she said.

"An efficacious remedy and I make no apology for it. I may have saved your life."